


honeysuckle

by corduroywords



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (but not to their face), Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pre-Kerberos Mission, Sheith Flower Exchange 2019, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 14:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corduroywords/pseuds/corduroywords
Summary: Falling in love hurts quite a bit, but Keith has never been the best at doing things by halves.Keith has a theory: Shiro isn’t real. Shiro is made of steadfast patience and smiles that crinkle his eyes. He’s the swooping below the ribs, the goodness and the softness and the starlight of the Garrison rooftop in the corners of Keith’s eyes that he should be watching, he really should be--but watching Shiro squint and adjust the telescope is so much easier; he pulls the light, easy, just like that. Really, his fault. But he pulls, he pulls. He pulls the stars, pulls the eyes, he pulls Keith into his arms and pushes his bangs back. Shiro is made of long dork rants and a stubborn refusal to eat anything not from the cafeteria and looking up. Always walking with his head up, up towards the sky.And then he disappears.





	honeysuckle

**Author's Note:**

> _Honeysuckle: Bonds of love, Generous and devoted affection_
> 
> this is super last minute but i rlly do hope u enjoy ! this was written for michelle as part of the sheith flower exchange 2019 and i just had,, so many emotions abt bby garrison keith falling in love in degrees when hes still scrappy and learning to trust,, anyway the honeysuckle part is kinda lowkey but i rlly hope u like it bb :''))

Keith remembers the goods and bads in equal, perfect clarity. 

The highs are a swooping right below his ribs, a little to the left. The lows are a pressing on either side of his lungs, caging his breaths until they don’t seem to escape anymore. 

His life has been dirty and desperate. As such, Keith has honed over time a skill to blur and block out any memories--high or low. He hides his past with arms over his chest and a scowl that wards off anymore.

Which doesn’t explain how Shiro got through. 

Keith has a theory: Shiro isn’t real. Shiro is made of steadfast patience and smiles that crinkle his eyes. He’s the swooping below the ribs, the goodness and the softness and the starlight of the Garrison rooftop in the corners of Keith’s eyes that he should be watching, he really should be--but watching Shiro squint and adjust the telescope is so much easier; he pulls the light, easy, just like that. Really, his fault. But he pulls, he pulls. He pulls the stars, pulls the eyes, he pulls Keith into his arms and pushes his bangs back. Shiro is made of long dork rants and a stubborn refusal to eat anything not from the cafeteria and looking up. Always walking with his head up, up towards the sky. 

And then he disappears.

Space stole him, and Keith had never felt more selfish than the day he hugged Shiro as tight as he dared before he got on that launch, held onto that last anchor, the last feeling of solid flesh and freshly pressed uniform and the jittery excitement trembling under him. He smelled earthy--like warm overturned dirt and sun soaked grass. 

Shiro had turned at the last moment, grinned so wide it took up half his face. Every part of him smiled: his eyes, his ruddy cheeks, his feet trying to stop bouncing. _It’s gonna kill me when I’m away_ , he’d said. But he was smiling. 

What could Keith have done? How could he have done anything other than smile so hard his cheeks hurt, the only time he’d ever felt like they both glowed. It was Keith and Shiro. KeithandShiro. ShiroandKeith. 

Shiro hesitated, his smile faltering for a moment as their locked eyes searched each other’s faces. Were they sad? Bittersweet? Excited? Then Shiro’s mouth quirks up on the right side--it was always the right side--and he gave the smallest salute. He was gone in moments--there and then not. 

Keith doesn’t know if it was a high or a low. Maybe a mix. Perhaps the ache he feels when he thinks back is just him missing _then._ Sneaked rides and the Golden Boy breaking rules. Rooftops and bad meatloaf and Keith learning everything about giving from a boy who’d found something broken and pointed at it, saying, _I want that one._ Slow alliances, slow trust and slower love. Or maybe it was immediate. Maybe Keith had fallen immediately, given everything immediately. What he misses most, though, is when they were looking up, up at the stars.

After Shiro had gotten on that spaceship, Keith told himself to head back to his room. Passing by Shiro’s door, he hesitated before punching in the code Shiro had given him before--his mom’s birthday. _Don’t touch my cheese puffs or the leftovers,_ Shiro had told Keith, which really meant that he was letting Keith know they were there for him. And he assumed Keith was obliviousness to kindness. As if he wouldn’t over analyze anything Shiro gave him. Every word, every gesture. As if he didn’t know Shiro so well it was in his bones. 

His room is still the way it always is. Bed made like a hospital cot and textbooks piled in the corner of his desk. A star chart and a tapestry of some bad action movie popular a few years ago that Shiro told everyone was his favourite--total lie, by the way. Shiro watched romcoms and family sitcoms exclusively. Then there’s his closet, hanging open, stuffed with things he shoves in when he doesn’t guilt-clean his room. Right now, it’s all hoodies and old papers. Somehow, Shiro always knows where everything is. 

Keith’s favourite hoodie of Shiro’s is a yellow one that’s soft on the inside, at the very top of the pile. He knows because Shiro shoved it over his head once, complaining that he never ate vitamins and _when was the last time I saw you drink water, Keith?_

The longing, the missing starts to settle in. Keith snatches the hoodie out, closing the closet door. Padding to the bed in the corner of the room, Keith sees clothes under the covers too when he lifts one edge of the duvet up. For a moment, he considers throwing them out so he can burrow in deeper, but he decides that he wants to preserve the room. Shoving his clothes off, he stands in his boxers staring at the yellow hoodie in his hands. Imagining Shiro in the hoodie (the sleeves covering kis arms, his torso, touching his chest, his skin) is too much all at once. Keith puts in on as quickly as he can, sliding under the covers (the covers have touched his arms, his torso, his skin, have seen him after Keith had left and before Keith had come) before he can feel any guilt. 

The sun streams through the blinds. Dust particles dance in the air and Keith reaches out, trying to grab them. The sleeves of the hoodie flop around, and a warm curl of satisfaction settles somewhere in his gut. He doesn’t know what this is. 

Keith burrows himself deeper. 

The white bedset is sunwarmed. Covered in his best friend’s hoodie and his best friend’s sheets, everything feels slow and dazy. _I think I love him_ , Keith thinks. _I think I’m in love with him._ Guilt trips in his stomach, but he forces himself to hang onto the thought just a moment longer. _I think I want him to be my best friend forever._

He doesn’t know what this is. But the edges blur, and he feels Shiro’s smile on the back of his eyelids. 

_Shiro would let me sleep here,_ he thinks, and that satisfies Keith enough for him to let go of consciousness. 

Drifting, teetering right on the edge, he feels a ghostly presence over him. _Sleep,_ Shiro says. There’s a brush of lips on his temple, his wrist, the ticklish very back of his ankles. Keith wants to ask why he’s there. _You’re supposed to be on a spaceship,_ he wants to say. _I think I like you too much,_ he wants to say. _I think I’ve liked you so, so long. I think you’re a swooping feeling and I like the way your eyes crinkle. I like the way you don’t get mad when I run from you and I like how you know when to follow me and when to let me come back to you. I pretended to be asleep once, just so you would carry me to your room. I think you knew. I like how you let me, anyway. And I don’t know how to love anybody without working for it. I don’t know how you got in, and I don’t know why I like the way your breath smells after you’ve had three helpings of mac & cheese. I’d work for your fondness, if you’d let me. I think you’d give me love anyway. And I like that. I like that a lot._

 _Sleep_ , Shiro murmurs against the point of Keith’s jaw. _Sleep_ , against the corner of Keith’s quivering lips, wet and salty. 

_I don’t know why I like you so much_ , Keith whispers, thinks he whispers. His voice breaks on the last syllable. Shiro smiles against his mouth. _Sleep_ , he says.

* * *

Shiro isn’t there when he wakes up. 

Of course he isn’t. He’s on Kerberos. He’s in space, where he belongs floating amongst the stars--his birthright. Keith doesn’t know whether he’s relieved or disappointed. Only snippets of last night come back; whispered confessions and mirage silhouettes. But he knows he could only talk the way he remembers he did when he’d either dreaming or drunk out of his mind. 

Thinking about Shiro makes him itch his skin, suddenly wanting to crawl out. It makes his cheeks flush and his body feel separate from his mind. It’s killing him. Keith wonders if it’s killing Shiro, like he’d said. 

Letting out a breath, Keith rolls out of Shiro’s bed. His eyes feel swollen. His lips are salty when he licks them. _Fuck Shiro and the stupid feelings,_ Keith thinks, but his heart isn’t in it. His heart is somewhere on a rocketship, with a boy that took him in. His best friend. 

Keith goes to the gym. 

Hurting is easy, and hurting other things easier. At first, the punches come slow. But after a while, he grits his teeth and closes his eyes, speeding up and up and up, his breathing quickining and his punches getting more and more desperate--

A sharp blow to his chin knocks him to the ground. 

Keith’s elbows catch him and his breath is forced out when he hits the mats. He lost control of the bag. If Shiro were here…

 _But he isn’t._ The fall itself is nothing; God knows Keith has received worse. Somehow, though, getting up feels incredibly difficult. It’s as if Keith is expecting something to happen, he can feel the tension in his muscles, getting ready. 

It takes a moment to recognize it, but the realization makes him lie down. Because it’s Shiro. Of course it was Shiro. Keith was waiting for Shiro to laugh without any meanness and put out a hand for him. An offer, always open. 

Keith suddenly wishes he could take it, just this once. 

* * *

Recognizing that he’s in love with his best friend--the boy that took him in--is something. Accepting it is another. 

While Keith is stubborn, he’s adaptive. Adapting is, really, essential. So he loves someone (not just anyone) that cares for him like something tender (Shiro. Shiro) so intensely he feels as though the stretching, the accommodation in his heart is too much. Once you bend the walls too far, the material will never go back. Maybe it’ll sag. Maybe it’ll just hurt. 

So he’s in love with his best friend. His best friend who, obviously, is in the atmosphere far above what anyone can dream of. Keith doesn’t know how to go on from here other than put his frustration into piloting. In some illogical connection in his head, Keith maps out a plan. He’ll pilot because it’s what Shiro wants. He’ll continue piloting and pour his soul into it because maybe, just maybe, he can make something for Shiro to come back to. And maybe--the slightest perhaps--Keith won’t have to think about this frantic beating in his chest, the midnight crawls into Shiro’s cot. 

It’s a quiet longing, this pulling of his. Every breath hurts, but trying to hold it is so, so hard. 

* * *

He’s missed everything, all of a sudden. He didn’t get to declare a final breakfast together, couldn’t somehow get Shiro to wear the yellow hoodie for longer so that it would smell more like him. He didn’t get Shiro to carry him to his bed one more time, to play along and pretend they didn’t both know he was wide awake. Keith wasn’t prepared. He isn’t the type of person to prepare. Handling things as they come is his expertise. Shiro handles the practicality part. Handled. 

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. For Keith, it grows in spades. He loves so hard. But all the hurt comes from feelings and people. He loves and he hates and he misses with everything he has and he hates it. Wishes his heart would back off with the attachments because where does it get him? How does he protect himself when his heart is a traitor and Shiro was everything good and everything Keith wasn’t?

And Keith doesn’t like crying. Vulnerability is like blood in the water, and it brings the sharks. He tells himself he won’t. He only does it three times, all at night in Shiro’s cot, turning the pillow salty and his eyes puffy. He needs to clean the hoodie. He knows he won’t.

And he works hard. He sneaks in at nights and saves the good scores. He keeps his emotions in check and keeps the attitude down. He remembers to watch his sharp left turns and he goes to every class. _Good job_ , he imagines Shiro saying. _I’m proud of you, Keith._

* * *

Keith remembers it’s a Sunday when he’s called down to Iverson. 

Two words (Takashi Shirogane, Golden Boy, “Keith, right?”) save Keith in the beginning and two words (pilot error, pilot error, pilot error) destroy him in the end. 

His heart skips. 

“No.” Like denying it could make it go away. 

“I know you two were close.” 

“We were--” 

And what were they? A boy and a mentor? Best friends? A boy with a helpless soft spot and the Golden Boy? 

His hands quiver at his sides. Tears spring to his eyes and he shakes his head fervently. “So you get a rescue team. You find him. He wouldn’t have. He doesn’t--” Keith’s voice breaks and he knows he can’t cry. He can’t cry in front of Iverson. _Get yourself together._

And he knows that he looks insensible. _Insensible._ Shiro was never insensible. 

Iverson doesn’t spare him with an answer. He doesn’t punish him with one either. 

Keith knows defeat. He also knows that this is where it ends. There’s nothing he can do, he knows, and that doesn’t console him in the least. 

_A traitor heart. This is why you don’t attach yourself to someone that’s bound for the stars._

* * *

(And remember what he said about not crying?)

* * *

He loves him like he loves the sky. Always there. Knowing he has to work to get up there, but not feeling like he’s losing any pride to get there. Wanting it-- _him_ \--to be the future. He’d settle for cargo pilot. He’d settle for just one ride. He’d settle down with Shiro some day. He’d work for it. 

But then it crashes that maybe he can’t settle down. Because Shiro was _everything._ Like in the romance movie they watched together just a month ago that made Shiro cry. The man in the movie had ran through the airport and found her right before she’d boarded, and told her that. “You are everything.” 

Shiro was bawling, but Keith remembered thinking, maybe a little selfishly about the man in the movie, _but you have so much._ The man had a family and an always-there-house and a job he loved. He had books and a dog and friends to call and come home to. He had little things like gifts and carnival prizes and a stash of candy in his bedside drawer. 

In this situation, Shiro was _everything,_ everything. Not the thing you say to make the girl stay. The thing you say because it’s true and you can’t say anything else because it’s been stuck in your throat the day you met him. 

The thing you recognize to make you kneel over in their bedroom with their hoodie in your hands that barely smells like them anymore while thinking that no one else loved him the way you did. Because you don’t have a family or an always-there-home. You don’t have all the friends or the carnival prizes. You had foster homes that saw you as a liability and an extra mouth to feed. You have bad habits and bad social skills and bad manners and an underweight and undersized body.

But you had Shiro. And you lost Shiro. And you miss Shiro so much that it hurts like a stab and you’re wondering how you’re making it to the next day, the next minute, the next moment. And you can’t stand it. You want it to stop and you wish he would be here and you know he can’t but you’re wishing anyway. You’re wishing you didn’t love him so and you’re wishing you could have said it, just once.

* * *

Keith goes back to class. He takes two days, just staying in Shiro’s room, in a hazy, blurred line between bouts of sleep and crying. After his two days are up, he needs to go back. One step after the other. He knows he won’t make it. He knows will anyway because it’s like he’s losing him. Keith will not accept that he’s lost him, period. But it feels like with every change, every time he needs, Shiro is slipping from his fingertips. 

So he goes back. He needs routine right now, he needs to do what Shiro would have wanted. 

They’re doing a sim drill, and a boy sitting on the sides looks up when Keith enters the doorway. Griffin, Keith remembers.

His mouth curls meanly. He’s a good pilot, always seconding Keith. Just too focused on others and not watching himself. 

“I’m guessing they told you.” 

Keith sits beside him, looks him right in the eye. He’s learned to press his tongue against the top on his mouth to stop crying. It works. 

“You know it was bound to happen. But I guess that puppies do tend to still stick around even after their owners fuck up.”

His fists shake. _Get yourself together._ “Don’t talk about him. Don’t you even dare say his name.”

“What? Shirogane? The competitions gone. He _couldn’t do it._ You heard it. It was a pilot--”

And his fist connects. There’s a crack and a sharp pain that shoots up his hand. The boy falls, and Keith’s anger is a tangible thing. The chattering and the sim stops. Everyone stares at Keith, and the whispers begin. People are mean. They were always mean. 

“It wasn’t a pilot error,” Keith says, and he leaves to pack his things. 

* * *

Keith has a theory: Shiro isn’t real. 

Or, perhaps, he never was. Because a real Shiro would never crash, would never have his name pass through lips of authority with grim eyes and a tone of hospital flatlines. 

A real Shiro would be here right now. He would hold him. 

Keith wants to be held like a gift, or maybe like a plush that’s held for the comfort of the person that needs it. He wants to be kissed, but he can’t decide whether he wants to jump right into the deep ones or the soft forehead and pulse kisses. He wants it all. 

He wants Shiro back.

\--

A jacket. A knife. The hoodie. Everyone in his shared room is at lunch now. He hasn’t been in here since the launch. _“They’re lying,”_ He thinks, all the way until he leaves with keys in his hands to a hoverbike that shouldn’t belong to him. 

_I’m sorry, Shiro,_ and, _I’ll find you_. 

\--

He realizes he didn’t take a helmet only later, when he realizes he’d been using his hands to shield his eyes from the desert sand being kicked up. Shiro would have made him wear one. 

The shack is closer to the town than he remembered. Or maybe it was just because it seemed like an eternity from when his dad left to when he returned from work there. 

But otherwise, it’s the same. There’s still the quilt in the cupboard he remembers his dad storing it in for the colder nights.

Maybe, under different circumstances, he would have felt so much more, coming back to his childhood home. But his heart is pounding and he has a headache from crying so much. He’s dehydrated and tired and really just wants everything to be ok. He wants to stop reminiscing and hurting. 

But he’s not naive enough to think that this too, shall pass. It’ll last. But he’ll keep breathing. 

\--

The next day, Keith gets on the bike and goes to the town. 

He’s starving for something to do. There’s a used bookstore to his left, and he decides that it’s a start. 

“Hello,” he’s greeted by a warm smile when he opens the door. A bell rings above him, and a woman in her late thirties is at the front, pausing from her scribbling in a notepad and looking up to meet his eye. She’s the first person who doesn’t know that he’s lost the best part of himself. 

“Hi,” he says, throat scratchy from disuse. “Im, uh, looking for something new. To learn.” 

“Oh, that’s fun. You from the fancy flight academy down North? Usually they wouldn’t be looking to learn anything more.”

He hesitates. “No.” 

She seems to sense something there and nods. “Alrighty then. I’ve personally found botany fun since I took it up a few months ago. I’m hoping to recognize some flowers when I escape from this green-starved desert.” 

Keith shrugs. “Sure.” 

“I have a book shelved back here. One sec.” She disappears into the shelves, appearing a few moments later with a yellowing oversized book with vintage-like floral depictions on the cover. “BASIC GUIDE tO FLOWERS AND THEIR MEANINGS” is written on the front in swirling letters. “There we go.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” he manages. He already knows he doesn’t have enough money. And even if he did, it was stupid of him to come here instead of on food and neccessities. He tries to make his face as apologetic as possible. “I--”

“Do you live around here?” she interrupts. 

“Yeah. Just a few miles.”

“Well, then I don’t see any problem lending it to you.” 

Keith is overwhelmed with the sort of feeling you get when you know someone’s done you a favour far greater than face value. “No, I don’t want to--”

“It’s nothing. As long as you bring it back in the same condition eventually and promise me to come over for a discussion and lunch, then I’d be happy to.”

“I--thank you.” He doesn’t know what else to say. 

“No, thank you.” She smiles again, her eyes crinkling kindly. “Everyone deserves flowers, don’t you think?” 

* * *

_Honeysuckle: Bonds of love, Generous and devoted affection_

Keith is spread out across their hard floor, eyes tired but knowing that he needs distraction. The book is huge, and even with the hours of reading and his substantial speed, he’s barely made a dent. 

He traces the illustration on the page in front of him. Who knew there were so many flowers? Shiro liked carnations, Keith knew. And lavender he found soothing. Honeysuckle…

_Bonds of love, huh?_

They have a desert honeysuckle bush in the back, Keith remembers. He recognizes the illustration. The arching shape, the red petals. A nostalgic, sweet fragrant smell.

He gets up and stretches, getting his shoes on. 

Swinging the door shut, he steps out into the cool night air. 

And the bush is thriving. 

It’s completely dominated the better part of the open ground. They’ve bloomed already, petals open, open, reaching for the sun that’s already disappeared. Reminds him of someone.

 _You and I_ , he thinks, crouching down to examine them, _we’re the same._

1\. Fill small peat pots with fresh potting soil. Wet the soil with a spray bottle and drain off the excess water.  
2\. Make tip cuttings of honeysuckle stems with pruning shears, taking at least 4 inches of growth with leaves. Soak the ends of the cuttings in water for several minutes.  
3\. Clip a small piece of stem off the end of each cutting, just below the last of the leaves. Pull the leaves from the bottom of the stem, leaving the leaf nodes behind.  
4\. Wet the end of each cutting, then apply powdered rooting hormone over the cut ends and lowest leaf nodes. Plant the powdered ends into the peat pots, covering the lowest leaf nodes with soil.  
5\. Pat down the soil. Create makeshift greenhouses for the cuttings by covering them with clear plastic bags. This will trap the heat and help rooting take place.  
6\. Set the pots in a temperate area that reaches at least 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Water the cuttings regularly, keeping the soil damp, until growth appears.  
7\. Harden the cuttings by gradually exposing them to outdoor conditions for a few weeks, then transplant them into the ground.

“You’re going to be ok,” he whispers to the freshly potted cuttings, wondering what he’s gonna do. 

“Fuck.” He wipes away tears with the sleeve of Shiro’s hoodie he’d just put on. “I love you,” he says into the night, hoping that he could hear. 

Keith sets himself down slowly onto the grass beside the pots. _Bonds of love, Generous and devoted affection._

“I could have given you everything, Shiro,” he whispers. And he’s drifting, he knows. He’s been up too long. “You were--you are--I know I’ll find you. I know it. And I know that I’m stubborn and terrible and scrappy and that you’re piecing me together and I need you to know that I love you for it. I’ve accepted it already. I’m not ready to let go of you.” And he’s crying, tiny shaking sobs. “Not yet.”

“Did you know that the stars are so bright here? There’s nothing covering them up. They’re trying to cover you up, Shiro. The Garrison is. But you know that you’re a different kind of star you--they can’t do it. Because I see you. I _see you_. Please, just--” He can’t breathe. There’s something wound up so tight in him. But Shiro is patient. He’ll wait for Keith. He will. 

_Sleep_ , Shiro says. 

“I have a theory, you know? I’ve always had this theory. You aren’t real. You don’t make _any sense_. There’s no equation to you. You give without asking and ask without intruding. You give so much, Shiro. There’s no one that deserves the world like you do. You fucking--you fucking masterpiece of stars. All I’ve ever wanted was to hold you, and for you to hold me. You don’t know how much I miss you. And I love you. I swear to God I do. And maybe you don’t think I know what love is, and maybe I don’t--but you’re this swooping right below my ribs, a little to the left.”

 _Sleep_ , Shiro whispers, and he kisses Keith so softly on the forehead that he wants to cry. 

“I’m so selfish. I want you like I’ve wanted nothing more. You’re so beautiful and you’re not lost and you’re not gone. You’re not real, Shiro. And that means that you can’t be fucking lost. You can’t. You can’t--” his voice breaks, and he knows he’s falling. “You said that it’s gonna kill you when you’re away. Well it’s killing--it’s killing _me_ when you’re away. And it hasn’t killed you. I won’t let it.”

 _Sleep_ , Shiro says, because he’s right here. And Keith is getting him back and maybe he’s wrong and maybe Shiro is so real, as real as the honeysuckle scent, heady and pulling him under. 

And oh, how they bloom.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://beefy-keefy.tumblr.com/) [twitter](https://twitter.com/beefykeefy?lang=en) (where im more active)


End file.
